


Merlin Drabbles

by Curbside_Picnic



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27728836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curbside_Picnic/pseuds/Curbside_Picnic
Summary: A bunch of drabbles about BBC Merlin because I don't fucking care if it's 2020, it's still a good goddamn show and the fandom is staying strong.If you want to request anything go ahead, I'll do anything other than:No rape/non-consensualNo underage/pedophiliaNo suicide/self-harmNo weird shit y'know?I'll update the tags as I update the story. Enjoy :)
Relationships: Gwaine & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin & Mordred (Merlin), Merlin & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin & Uther Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Mordred (Merlin)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72





	1. Liquid Fire

**Author's Note:**

> “It hurt so much, like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and it was like fire around me, burning me from the inside out and I didn’t know why it was happening!”
> 
> Something is wrong with Merlin's magic. Arthur get's soft.

It’s ironic.

In some broken, terrible way, it’s ironic that after everything - after years of swords and chores and bandits and dragons, after fate and sorcerers and druids and  _ secrets _ , the one thing to do him in would be his own power. The power he never wanted or asked for; the power fate cursed him with.

His magic was thrumming in his veins. He could feel it like the heat of fire too strong and too close, or the burning heat of tears on your cheeks after losing someone you love. It’s golden, liquid pain, dancing under his skin to the beat of his heart. He feels it singing along, swirling through his stomach and filling his lungs.

The forest is nothing but a smudged oil painting around him. Serenity envelopes him despite the panic clawing up his throat, fighting it’s way to his tongue. His mouth is dry, his blood rushing in his ears, and yet he feels at peace. His magic soothes him.

Lancelot is speaking. With concern washing his eyes with tears, he stands from his seat by a tree and rushes forward, reaching his hand out to grasp at him. Merlin jerks back instinctively, stumbling over his feet as the world comes back into focus. 

Lancelot is saying his name. Merlin can’t hear him over the blood rushing in his ears, but he can read his lips well enough. The man is more cautious now, reaching for him tentatively. Carefully. Like he is a wild animal ready to run at any moment.

Indeed, he is ready to dart at any second. His magic is thumping at his ribcage at the beat of his heart, singing to be let out. It’s crying to be set free, seeping out at the cracks in his walls like liquid fire. His mind is alight, an inferno in his skull so hot he can feel himself melting from it. 

“I need-” He rasps out, panic beginning to fill his eyes with tears, “I need to leave. I need to leave, I need to go, I’m sorry, please let me leave-”

“Merlin, what the hell is going on?” Lancelot cries, stepping forward. He watches with apt attention as Merlin trembles where he stands. The man staggers back, his fingers itching at his sides, his shoulders shaking with the force of his silent sobs.

“I have to go,” He croaks, avoiding Lancelot’s worried eyes and instead desperately searching his surroundings for his bag. When he can’t seem to find it, a sob of frustration rips through his vocal cords. He gives up in seconds and instead turns on his heel and darts away, Lancelot calling his name lost to the silence of the woods.

He doesn’t know how long he runs. He doesn’t know where he’s going or how he’s going to get back. All he can think is ‘ _ I need to get far away, I need to leave, I need to be alone’  _ and the moment he realizes he is in an unfamiliar place, he lets go.

His scream is raw. It claws up his throat and surrounds him, rough and broken. The forest seems to bend away from him as he finally,  _ finally  _ allows his magic to explode. The birds sang along to the wretched song, and the trees seemed to sway as though it was music. 

The release hurts more than anything he’s felt before. His body is burning up in his own inferno, his bones turning to ash, his veins molten lava. The world is gold around him, so bright, so blinding, so  _ painful _ he fears that Camelot can see it from so far away. 

He’s not sure why it’s happening. He doesn’t understand why, why, why, why, why it hurts so much, why is this happening to me, why is it so strong? It was a normal day, he was just picking herbs, spending time with Lancelot in the woods. He awoke to the smell of porridge, he woke up Arthur, he dressed him, bathed him, did his laundry, made his breakfast. He was tasked with collecting herbs for Gaius. 

And then there was a spark. Something deep in his chest, so far back he didn’t know if it was even his at all. And then, suddenly, so suddenly, it was burning him. His magic caught the sparks like oil to a match, spreading through his body so quickly he didn’t have a chance to warn Lancelot.

The pain subsides in time. The sun lowers below the horizon, shrouding him in what would be darkness if not for the golden glow of his magic. His screams stopped minutes after they began, and he instead found himself dry heaving, gasping for breaths in between his cries. He curls into himself when the numbness replaces the pain, holding himself close in hopes of feeling something. Anything. 

When he feels his strength return to him enough to pull himself from the ground, he sways on his feet. Dirt cakes his body, tears streaks over his cheeks the only sense of cleanliness about him. There are angry red lines raking up and down his arms and neck where he scratched at himself, looking for some sort of relief from the burning pain.

He walks through the night, traveling through the woods until he comes to more familiar surroundings. He walks until the sun begins to rise and he finds himself at the place it began. Lancelot is gone, taking his bag and leaving the herbs. He must’ve rushed to Camelot when he realized something he couldn’t find Merlin. 

That means he’s only minutes away from the gates. He walks faster this time, ignoring the stinging pain of the scratches on his arms. He stumbles over roots and trips over stray branches, distracted by the numbness. 

The pain is still there; a dull ache beneath the feeling of nothingness. It worries him more than he wishes it did. 

When he arrives at the gates, Gwaine is waiting for him. His face lights up at the sight of him before he takes in Merlin’s appearance and pulls him into a desperate hug. Merlin stays silent to all of his questions, only speaking up to demand he be taken to Arthur.

People stare as they walk by. Guards pause to watch, villagers gasping at the sight of his withered body. Gwaine keeps a firm hand on his back as he leads him through the castle, murmuring pleasantries to him as though he’s in shock. Merlin supposes, belatedly, that perhaps he is.

Gwaine doesn’t let go, even when they arrive at the courtroom doors. He presses him close, running a thumb over the scratches on his arms absentmindedly as he presses the doors open. The hall abruptly falls into silence, each pair of eyes turning to him. Arthur stands from his throne the moment he realizes they’re there, and Lancelot stumbles from his place at the side to rush towards him.

“Merlin! Oh god, Merlin what happened-” He cries out, yanking him into his arms and holding him close, “God, you’re hurt! Are you okay? Merlin?”

The rest of the knights step closer, and Arthur appears at Lancelot’s side. Gwaine removes his hand reluctantly and steps forward.

“He arrived at the gates only minutes ago. He hasn’t said anything other than telling me he needed to see Arthur. I don’t know what happened,” He explains, his tone deadly serious for Gwaine. Lancelot runs his hands over Merlin’s arms, searching his face for something, anything. Merlin blinks slowly, turning to Arthur.

“Arthur?” He mutters. The man steps forward dutifully, concern etching his features. The pain seems to ebb away at the realization that he’s alright, that Arthur is okay, that everything is fine. He steps forward quickly, pressing himself into the King’s chest. The man lets out a worried hum, wrapping his arms around Merlin.

“Are you okay?” He murmurs lowly, and Merlin lets out a sob despite himself. The arms tighten around him, and Arthur tucks his head into his neck. If not for the circumstances, Merlin would have been surprised at the tenderness. However, his mind is still reeling at the memory of the golden flames licking at his body and the terror he felt. 

“I’ll get Gaius, he needs those scratches checked out,” Gwaine announces, and Percival and Elyan hurry after him. Lancelot steps out silently, the rest of the servants and knights disappearing through the door. 

They slowly sink down, Merlin collapsing into Arthur’s weight with a shaky breath.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, “I need you to tell me what happened.”

A silence stretches on for a moment before Merlin shifts, pressing his check onto Arthur’s neck. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Merlin, I need more than that,” Arthur urges gently when Merlin doesn’t continue.

“I was picking herbs for Gaius. And then… and then it was like my magic was painful.”

“What does that mean?”

“My magic normally feels like- like warm. Like the sun on your face or when you drink too much mead. B-But then it was suddenly so hot and it was burning me from the inside, Arthur-”

Merlin lets out a hysterical cry, “It felt like it was clawing at my body trying to get out, and I didn’t know how big it would be or what would happen so I ran. I didn’t want to h-hurt Lance.”

“I understand.”

“God, Arthur,” Merlin sobs brokenly into his shoulder, spurred on by his soothing tone, “It _hurt_ _so much_ , like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and it was like fire around me, burning me from the inside out and I didn’t know why it was happening!”

He takes a deep breath, pulling back slightly to look at Arthur. His eyes are soft, softer than they’ve ever been, and the King reaches forward to run a gentle hand over his arms.

“You hurt yourself,” He says quietly. 

“I didn’t mean to. It just- I needed to make it stop. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until the pain stopped.”

“I didn’t know where you were. You were gone all night, and Lancelot came back just before dark screaming about you being hurt. He kept saying that you were fine one second and looked like you were being tortured the next. I wanted to go out and find you, but Gaius said that if you left willingly I should give you a moment to breathe, in case you were just sick or something.”

Arthur pauses, raking his eyes over Merlin’s disheveled features, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“I didn’t want you to be there,” Merlin says hurriedly, “I didn’t want anyone to be there. I knew it would be bad, and I didn’t want Lance to get hurt, even less you.” 

“I don’t know why it happened, Merlin, but Gaius might. We’ll figure this out. But in the meantime, you need to shower, wrap those wounds, and take a damn nap. You look like you’ve been to Hell and back.”

“I know,” Merlin sniffs, but doesn’t make a move to stand. Instead, he leans forward and presses his forehead to Arthur’s. The King pauses, his eyes widening in shock and confusion at the gesture. Merlin wraps his arms around his neck and sighs deeply. 

They stay there for a moment, still and silent, before Arthur moves his hands from the other’s arms and presses them to his cheeks. Merlin opens his eyes blearily, subconsciously leaning into the touch.

“I-” Arthur stutters quietly, and Merlin nods slightly, “You- just… I can’t do this without you, Merlin. I can’t be a King without you by my side. Not just because of your magic, but because of you. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

Merlin smiles brokenly, nodding along.

“I can’t…. I  _ can’t lose you _ , Merlin. I can’t. So please, if you ever feel like that again, if you’re in pain, if you’re hurt, anything, you have to tell me. Tell Lancelot, or Gwaine, or Gaius, or anyone. I can’t stand seeing you in pain like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers, and Arthur brushes his thumb over his cheekbones with such tenderness he can’t help but sigh into the touch.

“I-I love you, Merlin, so please-”

Merlin leans forward and presses their lips together, cutting him off. Arthur blinks into the kiss, surprise evident on his face even when Merlin pulls away. The King stares in silence, and the other man gasps quietly.

“I-I’m sorry, was that- did you mean like a brother or something? A friend? Oh, god, I’m sorry, that was so inappropriate-” Arthur stares, “I’m sorry, maybe it’s just the nerves of the day catching up to me-”

“Merlin,” Arthur mutters, “Shut up.”

Merlin pauses, realizing belatedly that Arthur is staring at his lips. He cracks a slow smile, biting his bottom lip.

“Yes, Sire,” He whispers and presses forward once again. Arthur reaches up to brush through the sorcerer’s hair, tucking his behind his ear whilst his other hand rests on his jaw. Their lips move in tandem, the kiss compassionate in every way. Warmth spreads through their bodies, Merlin’s magic surrounding them in a far more loving way than before. 

They pull back reluctantly, resting their foreheads together once more. Their lips tickle against each other, their labored breaths shared. 

“That,” Merlin hums, “Is what magic feels like.”

“It feels like gold,” Arthur whispers against his lips.

“Only the best for my King,” Merlin teases.

“Gaius is most likely preparing many potions for you if he’s taking this long. I reckon we should make our way over so that you can be taken care of.”

“I am being taken care of,” Merlin whines quietly, tucking his face into Arthur’s shoulder once more, “I’m in your arms, aren’t I? You said yourself that you can’t stand seeing me in pain-”

“Merlin.”

“And that you could never stand to lose me-”

“ _ Mer _ lin.”

“And that you  _ love me _ -”

“Merlin, shut up or I’m going to send you to the stocks, I don’t care how injured you are.”

The man breaks into a fit of giggles, and Arthur huffs along. Merlin places a line of soft kisses to his King’s throat, leading up to the corner of his mouth. Arthur drags his hands through his sorcerer’s hair meaningfully.

“I love you, too,” Merlin breathes into his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to them, before leaning back entirely.

“And you’re right, if Gaius isn’t here yet it means he’s going over every symptom I showed and fretting over what must have happened. I ought to calm him down. Plus, my arms hurt.”

“Rest up, Merlin, and don’t even think about coming back to do your chores until Gaius says you can,” Arthur helps him up and leads him to the door.

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin replies cheekily, stepping into the corridor.

“Not to say you can slack off!” The King calls out after him, laughter in his tone. He hopes it’ll be alright.


	2. The Scent of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because I smell good?”
> 
> “Because you smell good.”
> 
> The nights get into trouble. Merlin is reckless. Mordred lights how Merlin smells. Arthur is there. Elyan is not there. I apologize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by Sophie Marie Jänsch. 
> 
> Slight violence in this one, but it's non-explicit.

Emrys smells like magic. It doesn’t seem possible - magic doesn’t have a smell, of course; yet, in some remarkable way, he smelled of it. The scent clung to his clothes, his jacket and neckerchief smelling the most of it. His hair smells of magic as well, just as strong as the scent on his neck and his arms. 

It was enchanting (pun unintended), but it smelled all the same. It came as no surprise that nobody else noticed it; they didn’t understand magic, least of all connecting with it enough to feel it or smell it. But, Mordred was a druid, and Emrys was _Emrys_. 

He never commented on it. Emrys seemed to dislike him enough without him making comments on how he smells. Until that is, Mordred, Emrys, Arthur, Percival, Gwaine, and Leon go on a small mission that was supposed to be a simple recon. The King wanted to see if the rumors of a slave trader moving into an abandoned village nearby were true.

But, of course, trouble sought Arthur Pendragon at any cost, and this was no exception. 

The slave trader, Alistair, was awaiting their arrival. It took mere moments for the small group to be knocked out, overwhelmed by the large number. They awoke in a small, dirty, hay-filled barn with their arms and legs tied with rope. They were stripped of their weapons and chainmail, left only in their pants and shirts. Emrys was left alone.

“I swear to God, if we get sold as slaves, I’m going to flip my shit-” Gwaine starts, the first to speak since they realized what was happening. Percival kicks at him, the rope binding his legs making it difficult. Gwaine grunts at the movement but goes silent nonetheless.

“We aren’t going to be sold as slaves,” Percival announces, “If anything, Alistair is going to kill us and sell Merlin and Mordred.”

Mordred tenses up at that, whipping around to stare at him. 

“I get Merlin, but why Mordred?” Gwaine questions.

“Young, looking fragile even if we know he’s not. Alistair seems the type to assume,” Percival replies easily, and Arthur huffs. Emrys stays silent, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. He shifts constantly, fidgeting. Arthur seems to take notice as well.

“Have you the need to pee or something?” He snaps, and Emrys blinks up from the floor to glower at him.

“No, you clot pole,” He hisses through clenched teeth, “I’m… hold on…”

Arthur scoffs.

“I’m trying to- god _dammit_ ,” He curses suddenly, and the knights jump in surprise. A flash of livid frustration appears on Emrys’ face before it faded and he lets out a long, deep breath. Mordred watches worriedly as the man tenses and relaxes his shoulders rhythmically, bowing his head. Arthur and Leon exchange glances, furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.

“Merlin, what the hell are you doing?” Arthur demands, and there’s the faint sound of horses outside the barn. Gwaine rolls onto his stomach and shifts his hands around behind his back, trying to pull them out. 

“Merlin-”

“Arthur, shut up,” Emrys snaps, not raising his head. His shoulders go taut, his back arching as though he’s stretching. With a sudden jerk of his body, the man cries out in pain. 

“Merlin!” Percival and Mordred gasp together, and Arthur leans forward to catch his servant despite his arms being tied. A ragged breath escaped Emrys’ lips.

“C’mon, c’mon…” He mutters, arching back once again.

“Merlin, what the hell are you doing?” Percival demands.

“What does it look like? I’m trying to get my goddamn ropes off so we can get out!” He cries out in frustration, jerking forward again.

“But, why are you doing-”

“I need to dislocate my wrist to slip out, it’s the only way without a blade of some sort,” Emrys grits out, and the knights explode in concern.

“No!” They snap together, and Modred leans forward from his placement on his knees to knock his shoulder into the sorcerer. Emrys turns to him in surprise, most likely at the act itself. It was no secret that Emrys ‘distrusted’ Mordred (the boy was beginning to think he hated him).

“Em- eh, em,” Mordred begins, covering the slip up with a cough, “Merlin, that’s really not a good idea.”

“Oh really?” He snaps, “You know else isn’t a good idea? Me being sold as a _fucking slave_.” Mordred frowns at him as he shifts to the side, curling to his shoulder.

“You won’t be sold,” Leon says firmly, and at the sound of footsteps coming from near the barn, Emrys curls in closely and jerks so harshly the group can hear the pop. Mordred flinches back, staring at the man in shock as he draws in a shuddering breath.

“Finally.”

“Rise and shine, boys!” Alistair calls from outside, and yanks open the door. The knights groan at the bright light but otherwise refrains from any comments (a large accomplishment for Gwaine). Mordred glances back at the sorcerer, but he shows no signs of his previous expression. His face is hardened and dark, glaring at the slave trader.

“Oh, that’s such a sour look!” Alistair laughs out, pointing at Arthur’s snarling face, “Don’t worry, Your Highness, I’m not here for you! I’m here for that little runt over there.” 

The man saunters over to Emrys cockily, eyeing the ties around each of their hands. He leans down, stroking a finger under the man’s chin to make him lift his head. Emrys meets his eyes unflinchingly, and Arthur lets out a sound close to a growl from the back of his throat. Mordred refrains from making the same sound. 

“Oh, you’ll go for a pretty price,” The man purrs, suddenly yanking the man onto his feet. Emrys stumbles only slightly before righting himself, flashing a reassuring look to the rest of the men. Arthur doesn’t seem to be any more settled. Mordred doesn’t, either.

“What with those big doe eyes and floppy ears,” He sneers, “You could be an escort if you so wanted. But, alas, you look far more useful on a farm or in a kitchen than with a woman or a man.”

“Oh, Alistair, I think your inferiority complex is showing. Problems downstairs, perhaps?” Emrys hums, sending a cocky grin his way when Alistair let’s out a deep snarl.

“Watch your mouth, runt-”

“Runt? Runt? You must really be projecting if you’re calling me that. Runt, really? Is that the issue? Is your cock too small for any woman’s joy? Or perhaps your stamina is far too slow to keep up with a runt like me? What with your gut, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The knights gape at Emrys, and Gwaine let’s out a barking laugh. Alistair growls at him.

“You aren’t worth the trouble of an auction! Nobody would buy you with a mouth like that! I might as well put you out of your goddamn misery like a _dog_ -” The man slurs, reaching a hand to his belt. His fingers grasp at air, and he glances down. Mordred waits with a confused stare as he pats at his thighs.

“My knife… where is my knife?”

“What, this knife?”

Six pairs of eyes turn in shock and terror as Emrys’ hands emerge from his back, the rope hanging loosely at his wrists and a long, sharp knife in his right hand. With a flash of bared teeth and hard eyes, the manservant swings it forward and embeds it into the slave owner’s neck. Alistair chokes, wide eyes staring into Emrys’ unforgiving ones. He drops like a rock. 

They sit in silence for a moment before Emrys drops to Arthur’s side, slicing through the bindings with the knife. They don’t speak, and the manservant lets out a gasping breath when he hands the knife to Arthur.

“I can’t- I need to fix my wrist-” 

“I can untie them, you just sit tight,” He mutters, and despite the quiet tone, Mordred can hear the underlying anger. He’s furious at the man’s actions - the druid can’t blame him. Dislocating his wrist and stabbing a man. God.

The moment Mordred’s arms and legs are free, he’s beside Emrys. He runs a tender hand over the man’s wrist, glancing up. The man looks at him in pain, nodding softly. 

“This is going to hurt. A lot,” Mordred says, and grips the joint. After a few moments of shifting, they pop into place. Emrys cries out in pain, dropping his head onto the younger man’s shoulder. Mordred tenses for a moment before relaxing. He inhales deeply, and the smell of magic fills his lungs. The smell of Emrys.

The smell of _Merlin_.

“You smell like magic,” Mordred murmurs despite himself. Emrys snickers into the skin of his shoulder.

“What does magic smell like?”

“Like… like nature, kind of?” He inhales again, “Like flowers, trees, river water, fire, grass…”

“I smell like all of those things?”

“I don’t know,” He admits, “It’s like it changes with your magic. Fluctuating. It smells beautiful, though. Sweet.”

Emrys sighs deeply, sagging against his body.

“You smell good, too.”

“Really?” Mordred gapes slightly. Arthur appears beside them, jerking his head over to the door with a questioning look. Mordred nods to him and slowly lifts Emrys and him off of the ground. 

“What do I smell like?” He questions bashfully as they stalk through the abandoned village, seemingly no other soon-to-be-slaves around. Alistair was certainly waiting for them. They left his body behind in the barn.

“Not like what you described as magic,” Emrys starts, “You smell like lavender and honey.”

“I’ve not a clue as to why.”

“Of course you don’t. Nobody ever realizes what they smell like because they’re so used to it,” Emrys states factually, and Mordred giggles quietly. 

“I suppose that’s true. After you live with something for so long, you forget what it’s like to live without it.”

They go silent for a moment, trekking through the woods. They’ve fallen behind the others a bit, but Emrys doesn’t comment on it, so Mordred doesn’t either.

“Why didn’t you make your binds go away with magic?” Mordred finally asks the question pounding at his mind. Emrys sighs deeply, clearly waiting for it.

“Everyone was watching. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without them seeing my eyes or the magic itself. Even if they didn’t see, there’d be no way to explain how it happened.”

“Why don’t you just tell King Arthur about your magic? Surely he’d understand.”

Emrys laughs sadly at that, bitterly, brokenly, so awfully resigned and exhausted at the mere suggestion of it that Mordred breaks a little inside at the thought of it.

“Of course he would, Mordred,” The sound of his name on Emrys’ tongue makes his heart soar in a way he refuses to acknowledge, “But the betrayal would ruin him.”

It pains Mordred to think that even now, Emrys’ thoughts are concerned for others, for Arthur, that he doesn’t even seem to notice how horrible it is. How horrible it is to have to hide who you are, what you are, what you stand for, because Fate so decided he was to live his life with only one purpose - that purpose being not for himself, but for another.

“I’m sorry for being cold to you, Mordred. I don’t have much of a reason to be this way. You are far better than I thought,” Emrys breaks him from his thoughts. 

“Because I smell good?”

“Because you smell good.”

They break into laughter.


	3. Don't Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I will not serve an unjust King, Arthur. Put him to death and I will leave Camelot."
> 
> A druid is condemned to the pyre. Merlin is angry. Arthur realizes his mistakes. They talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by Nightfurylover1112.

“You will be hereby sentenced to death by the pyre. Take him to the dungeons,” Arthur announces, waving his hand at the guards. The man is swept to his feet, a scream escaping his lips as he begins to be drug off.

“No! No, please, no! I’ve done nothing wrong, I am of no magic! Please, My Lord, My King, please! I don’t want to die,” He screams, thrashing in the hold of the men, “I know no magic, I know no evil!  _ Please! _ ” 

Arthur watches in silence as he is pulled out of the hall fighting, his cries echoing through the room even after he is gone. Merlin steams in silence for only a moment before whirling around to snarl at the King. The latter jumps in surprise at the sudden display of anger.

“What the hell, Arthur? I told you he was innocent!” He snaps. Arthur huffs at him.

“He has the druidic tattoo on his shoulder, Merlin. He knows magic. And, in case you’ve forgotten,” The man mocks, and Merlin glowers, “Magic is forbidden in Camelot.”

“Just because he has a tattoo doesn’t mean he knows magic! Some druids don’t practice the Old Religion!” 

“And you would assume he does not know it? You would let him roam free in our Kingdom because he ‘gave his word’? That’s foolish, Merlin, and you know it!” Arthur snaps back, and Merlin stomps forward from his place beside Gwen. Arthur blinks at him, straightening his back. 

Merlin points a finger into his armored chest, “You are the foolish one here, Arthur! You’re blinded by your hatred of magic, just as your father was-”

“You will do well not to speak ill of my father!”

“You’re becoming a tyrant!” Merlin blunders on, “Killing innocent men as you see fit because you think nobody can stop you! He has practiced no magic, and even if he did, no evil has been done to this kingdom in months! Who is to say he has not been helping you?!” 

Merlin jabs his finger into the man’s chest harder.

“Magic is not always evil! You’re condemning a man to a slow and painful death because you think he  _ might _ have done magic! How can you not see the wrong in that?” Merlin jeers. Arthur shoves the offending finger away from him, his face turning red.

“I let you get away with more than enough insubordination, Merlin, but this is too much! You will mind your tongue or I’ll send you to the dungeons with him!” The King bellows. The rest of the hall sits in taut silence, watching in shock as Merlin straightens his back angrily.

“You run from the truth!” The manservant sneers, “Because you know you are wrong but you refuse to believe it. All you know is the hatred for the magic that your father embedded into you. Your father is  _ dead _ , Arthur, and you best realize you are King now. Start acting like one.”

“That’s it, guards, take him to the dungeon,” Arthur orders, and two of them step forward almost hesitantly. Merlin glares at Arthur, eyes bright with anger.

“I am done watching innocent people die. I thought it would be different after Uther’s death. It seems you are just as tyrannical as he was. I will not serve an unjust King, Arthur. Put him to death and I will leave Camelot,” Merlin informs him in controlled anger. Arthur gapes at him as Gaius and Gwen gasp audibly, eyes widening at the admission. The guards grab hold of their arms, and Merlin shrugs them off.

“I’ll go,” He snaps, “I’m not afraid of some time in the dungeons. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been sent there for speaking the truth.” He sends a nasty glare Arthur’s way and purposefully stalks out of the hall, the guards following him. The King watches him go.

“Arthur…” Gwen whispers from Gaius’ side. The King glances at her.

“Perhaps he’s right. He was a bit… abrupt about it, but perhaps the druid doesn’t practice magic? He did seem truly shocked at the accusation,” She inquires. Arthur stares at her for a moment before sagging into his throne, frowning deeply.

“I can’t just… hope he isn’t practicing magic. I can’t risk that,” He sighs, the crown on his head looking so heavy. Gwen nods slightly.

“Then banish him,” She suggests, “Banish him to Cenred or Annis’ kingdoms. He seeks no harm to Camelot, that much is clear by the fact he hasn’t done anything against you. He cannot attack from afar.”

Arthur sits in silence, mulling over her words. He nods jerkily, standing once more.

“I suppose you’re right. I’ll announce it tonight, and he will leave at first light. I must go see Merlin first, though. He does reckless things when he’s upset,” The King states. Gwen nods in agreement, a smile on her face at the news. He leaves the hall with long strides, his journey to the dungeons quiet.

His thoughts are deafening. The mere idea that Merlin would leave his place at Arthur’s side - that the deaths Arthur has inflicted on so many people have affected more than his servant ever let on, terrifies him. The thought of Merlin leaving him brings a sense of panic to him, and he quickens his pace.

He arrives at the dungeons and stalks to the cell he knows Merlin will be in - he’s practically claimed it as his own. 

“Merlin?” He mutters, and when the man comes into his view, he can’t help but sigh. Merlin is huddled into the corner, clearly brooding, with a scowl on his face. His eyebrows are pinched and his lips are pursed.

“What?” He snaps, glaring up at his King. Arthur unlocks the door and steps inside, leaving the door open behind him. He doesn’t reply, just stepping forward until they’re beside each other. He slides down the wall slowly until he is fully seated in the hay. Merlin watches him in glowering silence.

“I- I’m sorry,” He starts awkwardly, “I was too quick to condemn him. I… I’m often too quick to condemn people for magic. My father taught me of the horrible things it does to people, but… but you’re right. Magic isn’t always bad. The druids are peaceful people, and this man seems to be innocent.”

Merlin watches him from the corner of his eye now, keeping his head bowed slightly. He draws his legs up to his chest a bit tighter, nodding.

“I’m going to banish him, as I cannot allow him in the kingdom if he is practicing magic. But I will not execute him,” Arthur informs the other man, “And I’m sorry. For not listening to you. And, um… please, don’t. You know.” 

Merlin lifts his head and stares at him, offering no help in the awkward admission.

“Please don’t leave,” He breathes quietly, resting his head back on the wall with a quiet  _ thunk _ of his crown. Merlin’s eyes search his face for a moment before he releases his legs, relaxing slightly. He leans to the side, resting his shoulder against the King’s. 

“I won’t,” He whispers, as though it’s a secret he doesn’t realize he’s sharing, “I wouldn’t. It just… hurts me to see people die like that. Innocent people condemned to a terrible ending for something they did not do. And- and even if they did, magic is not always bad. Druids are such peaceful people. It’s a religion; worship of the Old Religion. It doesn’t always involve the use of magic. To condemn someone for a way of life they cannot control…”

Merlin trails off for a moment, shaking his head, “It was different with Uther. He was blinded by his hatred, the experiences he had as King making him turn from reason. But you’re- you’re different, Arthur. You have such a good chance of being a brilliant King.”

He straightens himself suddenly, and Arthur lifts his head to look at him. 

“Promise me you will not condemn anyone to death unless you have solid proof of evil magic. Some people use magic to cure sickness or to save people from violence. Promise me that, in those cases, you will only banish. Not kill.” 

“I promise,” The King swears immediately, not a second of hesitation, “But for as long as I uphold that agreement, you can’t leave.”

Merlin cracks a small smile at that, reaching a hand out to shake. Arthur grasps it firmly.

“I’d never leave you, Sire. You wouldn’t last a day without me.”

He doesn’t object. 


	4. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If anything, banish me. Just- just not the pyre. I grew up with nightmares of it."
> 
> Merlin gets hurt. Scars a revealed. Mordred gets protective and lets something slip. Arthur is upset. Merlin pleads his case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by Kumioko.
> 
> Slight description of violence, descriptions of scars, etc.

“Bandits!” Gwaine hollers, pulling his sword from its sheath. Leon shouts something indistinguishable, gracefully sliding off of his horse and stabbing the first of the group through the chest. 

“Goddammit-” Arthur curses, doing the same. The rest of the knights break off into small groups, fighting back against the suddenly large numbers. Mordred finds himself fighting an overly enthusiastic bandit, the clanging sound of swords clashing filling his ears. He keeps his focus, cutting the man down after a few moments. He turns to the next man, stabbing him through the back as he brings a sword over Elyan’s head. The man glances back and flashed him a grateful smile.

“Where’s Merlin?” Gwaine calls over the fighting, and Mordred spins on his heels to search the surrounding forest. There is no sight of the man, and he feels an odd sort of worry grasp at his heart before he takes a breath, shaking his head. Emrys is more than capable of taking care of himself.

“Ugh,” Percival grunts, throwing a man off of his back. Mordred turns and helps him, forgetting for a moment how many of them there are. Then, with a shriek, one of the bandits flings himself toward Arthur. The King is occupied by another, not taking enough notice. Mordred gasps.

It takes him a moment to realize Emrys is there. He blinks, ready to watch as his King is cut down, and then he opens his eyes to the sight of Emrys hunched in front of him, blood blooming over his back. 

“ _ Merlin! _ ” Gwaine and Mordred shout together, one out loud and one in the man’s mind. Emrys whips around, not a moment too late, and produces a knife. He ducks out of the way as the bandit brings his sword down. With one fell swoop, the knife is embedded in the bandit’s stomach, and Arthur is at his side.

He says something too quiet for Mordred to hear over the fighting, and Elyan kills the last of the bandits. They’re breathing hard, not bothering with the fallen men before they’re at Emrys’ side. The man groans slightly, rolling his eyes at something Gwaine mutters.

“I won’t d-die, Gwaine, I just need to wrap it up. I’m… I’m losing blood. Help me-”

Arthur releases his grip on the servant's shoulder and Leon offers a hand, Emrys climbing to his feet.

“Ow,” He pouts quietly. Mordred steps forward, reaching over to grab his bag from his horse. He offers it with a sympathetic gaze.

“To wrap it.”

Emrys nods, stepping over to sit on a log.

“It might take a minute, sorry,” He grunts, opening the bag. He rummages through it, pulling out various items. He stands slowly, pulling his neckerchief off. Mordred swallows thickly, averting his eyes. It feels wrong to see him without it - as though it’s an extension of himself.

He hears a choked gasp beside him, and he turns to eye Gwaine in suspicion. The knight’s eyes are wide, staring at Emrys, and the moment Mordred turns he understands why.

His back is  _ littered _ with scars. Old, new, small, impossibly big for how little Emrys seems to show his displeasure at asking for help. A large bruise, the color of algae covers his hip, disappearing under his trousers. Small scars speckle his back and sides, pink and thin. 

What’s jarring are the big scars.

One, white in contrast to his slightly tanned skin, goes from his left shoulder to the small of his back, jagged and rough. Clearly made by a sword. Another, thick but short, slices around his side, most likely from being stabbed. Another, most likely made from an arrow, far too close to his spine for comfort. Others, a bit smaller, but just as concerning, and finally, the newest piece to his apparent collection.

It certainly isn’t long, but it’s deep. Blood trickles from the cut, the edges bright in color. The skin around it is flushed red, and with each twitch of his back, more bloodstreams from it. Just between his shoulder blade and the small of his back, Mordred winces at the likes of it. 

Leon is the first to step forward. Arthur continues to silently gape at it, the rest of the knights sitting in silence thought at the view.

“Merlin,” Leon inquires, and the man turns to look at him, “Where did… let me help you with that.”

Emrys hands him the cloth, damp from having water poured onto it, and Leon dabs it on the wound. The servant grimaces slightly but makes no sound, just turning to continue shifting his bandages to get them ready.

“You have a lot of scars,” Leon begins, and Emrys halts in his moments. His back goes rigid, his head shooting up to stare in sudden fear. His face is pale and sweat-slick, the bloodloss taking a slight toll. Mordred clenches his fist in anger at the thought. Emrys, great Emrys, afraid of what they’ll think of his scars. The scars he’s gotten from protecting them all. Reckless, protective, great Emrys.

“I… do,” Emrys murmurs absentmindedly, hesitantly. Leon takes the bottle of water from beside Emrys and pours more water onto the rag. He dabs it once more.

“Some of those are really bad, but I have to say that I’ve never seen you in the infirmary for a prolonged period of time. Save a few special moments,” Leon ponders aloud. Emrys’ backstays rigid, his hands paused in their movements. He keeps his head bowed, but Mordred notices the subtle tremble in his shoulders.

“I would surely hope, Merlin,” Leon continues, “That you didn’t continue to work around the castle or on hunts with us with injuries like these. That would be rather reckless, wouldn’t it?”

Emrys somehow tenses, even more, jerking his head back to stare defiantly back at the group.

“Judging by how this hunt went, I’m pretty sure Arthur would die the moment he left me in the castle. I’m the only thing keeping you all alive,” He says in what would have been a strong defense if not for the nerves in his eyes.

“When did he get them? I’ve never seen any reaction like he would have while working with a wound like that-” Arthur begins suddenly, loudly, stepping forward. Mordred interrupts with a sudden fierceness that surprises even himself.

“Maybe you did see the reactions and just ignored them,” He snaps, “You seem to do that often enough.”

The group startles, staring at him in surprise. Mordred ignores them, stalking over to Emrys. The man shrinks under his angry gaze.

_ ‘Emrys,’ _ Emrys looks up at him, trembling when Leon takes the bandages from his hands,  _ ‘Let me heal you. You’re still losing blood and we don’t have tools for stitches.’  _ Emrys shakes his head, turning to Arthur.

“I couldn’t risk leaving you alone,” He explains plainly, and Arthur snorts.

“You? I think I can handle myself without you for a few days,  _ Mer _ lin,” The King teases, and Mordred huffs slightly.

“You would have died long ago if not for Merlin. Show some respect.” Arthur turns his eyes to him with a confused glare.

“Respect? He’s a manservant,” He points out. Emrys turns to run a hand over Leon’s arm, grasping it in a handshake as he steps back. He moves to grab his shirt, but Mordred places a hand over the shirt.

“He is more than just that,” Mordred snaps, and Emrys yanks the shirt from his hand. 

“You’re right, My Lord,” He drawls coolly, an icy layer beneath his words, “I’m but a humble servant. You owe me no respect. Not as though I have been at your side for years now, nor have I saved your life countless times. ‘Tis no noble act.” Arthur bristles at his words.

“I meant no offense, Merlin. I just mean that you needn’t worry that I’ll be dying the moment you leave me. You need to tell me when you’re hurt so you can recover properly.”

“That’s implying you would allow him rest if he were injured,” Mordred interjects, still fuming at the thought that none of them had noticed such serious injuries. While Emrys can heal himself, it is terribly draining and difficult. Chances are that he healed himself partially and then went back to work, still in pain. Still hurt. 

“Of course I would!” Arthur snaps, offended at the thought. 

“You don’t seem to care when he’s tired or upset,” He points out angrily, and Emrys places a calming hand on his elbow.

“Mordred,” He mutters firmly, “He is King. He has much more pressing matters than a manservant’s health.”

“You are the most pressing matter,” Mordred insists, wide-eyed and red-faced. 

“Mordred,” Emrys sighs, and the druid turns to sneer at the King when he takes a step forward.

“Mordred, calm down, please. We were mistaken to not have noticed, but we’ll take far more care now,” He says placatingly.

“You’re ridiculous!” Mordred cries, livid at the suggestion, “So foolish! What a King you are, Arthur Pendragon, with not a single concern for your closest friend and ally! These scars could be years old, old enough to range to the first day of your meeting, and you wouldn’t have a clue! Far too many for any excuse!”

“I’m sorry, I am, but-”

“There is no but, Sire! You’ve left Emrys high and dry for far too long-”

“Emrys?” 

Mordred halts, his breath catching. Arthur stares at him in confusion, glancing between the two. Emrys whirls onto him, a sudden storm. His eyes are bright in fury and terror, his face pale and gaunt. He seems to have aged years with one word.

“Mordred,” He hisses, before turning to Arthur, “‘Tis nothing, Sire. A slip of the tongue.”

“No,” He objects immediately, “I’ve heard that name. Emrys is some sort of great sorcerer, is he not?”

He is met with silence, but it is all the answer he needs.

“Mordred, why are you saying his name? Are you in contact with him?” Mordred averts his eyes to Emrys - a nervous act to the others, a plead to the man in question. Emrys stares at him, eyes swimming in an emotion Mordred can’t seem to read.

“I-”

“The only way you’d be talking with him is if you…” Arthur trails off, his face flashing with deep anger, betrayal pooling his irises, “You’re practicing magic, aren’t you, Mordred? You are a druid, after all.”

Mordred does not respond, and the answer hangs heavy between them. Leon rests a tentative hand on his King’s shoulder, pulling him back slightly. As though he is going to attack. As though he’s going to hurt Mordred. As though he’s going to  _ kill _ Mordred.

“Y-You… you are a sorcerer. You are the one thing I have sworn to fight against, Mordred how could you? And working with Emrys,” He gasps slightly.

“Arthur,” Mordred begins to plead, horror raking through his body. Of all the ways to be found… of all the ways to be seen as what he truly is by his King. This is not how he wished it would go. 

“Arthur,” Emrys states firmly, stepping forward, “It is in his nature. A part of him. He is druidic, he cannot help it. No matter how hard he tried, he’d still be of magic.”

“And how would you know?!” Arthur hollers, stalking forward. Leon’s hand slips from his shoulder, and the knight looks completely lost on what to do. He glances back at Mordred ever so often, confusion lacing his features.

“Because I am the same way.”

Silence. Mordred stares, terrified, angry, nervous, afraid, so so so afraid, as he realizes what he has said. Arthur stumbles back, and Leon makes a choking sound in the back of his throat. Percival and Elyan seem to be in a state of shock, gaping at the air like fish. Gwaine, somehow in all of his idiocy, seems to have a revelation. Perhaps he always knew.

“What?” Arthur whispers.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Emrys says lowly, shooting a fierce glare in Mordred’s direction. The man grimaces, “But I suppose it had to happen someday. You may have grown up hating magic, but I know better than anyone that you have long since decided you don’t despise it as much as you pretend to.

“And while I wish it was not this way, it is. I am born of magic, Arthur, one of the only people to ever. I am not a sorcerer, I am a warlock. I  _ am  _ magic. I grew up with it, hiding it away. A secret that, if I ever told, would get me killed. I came to Camelot in search of Gaius, whom my mother knew could help me control it.

“And believe me, Arthur, I trust you with everything in my body. I wished I could tell you from the beginning. But you would have killed me. It is my destiny to serve you, my King, as your guiding hand. With me at your side, you are to be the Once and Future King, and I am to be Emrys. It is not my given name, but it is what Fate has decided for me.

“Mordred is druidic, he knew the name Emrys long before he met me as Merlin.”

They sit in silence, staring at one another. Arthur does not speak. Finally, Merlin sighs and mutters some sort of spell, his eyes flashing a brilliant gold. The group audibly gasps, Mordred momentarily mesmerized by the sight. He will forever love the feeling of magic flowing around them whenever his great Emrys bends it to his will.

The wound closes with a flash of gold, the scar blending in with the others. Merlin suddenly dips to his feet, bowing for his King.

“I understand if you must punish me, Sire. I have lived in your Kingdom as a traitor, a sorcerer, the act of magic forbidden. I swear on my life, Arthur, that I have only ever used my magic to serve and protect you. But… please,” Emrys raises his gaze, eyes shining with unshed tears. Arthur stares at him in bewilderment, “If anything, banish me. Just- just not the pyre. I grew up with nightmares of it.”

Arthur growls lowly, Mordred stepping forward as though ready to attack if he so chooses to lunge at Emrys.

“You are a great fool, Merlin. Your betrayal hurts me, and I am in great need of beating you over the head with a stick. But for now, we will make our way back to Camelot. Mordred,” The man snaps to attention, “You will be relieved of your duties as a knight until further notice, and will instead be a servant as your punishment. And  _ Merlin _ will be doing what he does best. Working the stables.”

The King spins on his heel and steps away, pausing when Emrys speaks.

“You do not hate me?” His voice is bleak and quiet, a whimper in his words. Arthur does not look back.

“Oh, Merlin,” He sighs, “I loathe you. But your scars are proof enough that you have only done well by me. I expect you both to tell me every detail of what you’ve done for Camelot since the moment you’ve arrived. And, as magic is still forbidden, we’ll need to work on a way to keep your secret until I can change that.”

“What?” Mordred gasps despite himself, “You’ll lift the ban on magic?”

Arthur laughs humourlessly, “I suppose you were entirely right in saying I wouldn’t last a day without you, Merlin. It does seem to make much more sense now. And I can’t just send you away. Magic can do good; your lives are proof of that.”

He climbs aboard his horse and gallops away, leaving them in the dust.

Percival does not speak, nor does Elyan. They merely climb up and ride away, sending the magical pair nods on their way. Gwaine lets out a sudden, barking laugh.

“Goddamn you, Merlin, keeping such an exciting thing from me all these years,” He laughs, “I should have known you were badass!” He kicks at a dead bandit by his feet, flashing a proud smirk at Emrys. He disappears after the others. Leon steps forward.

“Thank you, Sir Emrys,” He bows in great gratitude in the way he would a King, pressing a hand to his chest, “and Sir Mordred.”

He stands quickly, leaving them.

Emrys does not speak until he is out of view before turning to Mordred and landing a swift slap to his face. 

“Ah!” Mordred exclaims.

“You stupid, idiotic, foolish, arrogant, ignorant, clot-pole-ish-”

“Is that a word?”

Emrys shoves him back, sending the man to his back.

“Of all the ways for Arthur to find out, you throwing a tantrum of a few measly scars is by far the most aggravatingly  _ dumb _ way-”

“It wasn’t a tantrum,” He protests, “And they aren’t measly! Those are terrible, Emrys, how could you not have asked for help?”

“Because if I asked for help,  _ Mordred _ , Arthur would question how I got hurt, and then I would explain, and then he would know! Gods,” He curses. Mordred climbs to his feet and, not quite thinking of why pulls him into a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles into the bare skin, “I never meant to call you that out loud. It’s all I see you as, it’s hard to focus on calling you 'Merlin'. Especially when I’m upset. Please forgive me.”

Emrys sags into his chest, awkwardly holding him close.

_ ‘You are a toad.’ _

_ ‘If Arthur lifts the ban on magic… do you think we can be free?’ _

_ ‘There is no if, Mordred. Arthur will lift the ban, but you must give it time. He is furious with us, even if he doesn’t show it yet. Our betrayal- my betrayal runs deep. It will take time for him to forgive us.’ _

_ ‘How do we speed it along?’ _

Merlin chuckles into his mind,  _ ‘Impatient, are you? For now, I suppose I’ll tell him everything I’ve done since the beginning. We’ll show him magic, the beautiful thing that it is, and prove to him he mustn’t fear it. He’s only seen the worst of it through his lifetime. And then, one day, he’ll understand that while we will still need to be more vigilant… magic has a place at Camelot.’ _

_ ‘I cannot wait for such a day. Now, let’s get your shirt back on and go home.’ _

_ ‘Smart thinking. And, just for the record,’  _ Merlin steps back, flashing him a cheeky grin _ , ‘I’m loading off half my chores to you now that you’re a servant.’ _

_ ‘Goddammit.’ _


	5. Lies and Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t run from anything.”
> 
> “I assume they run from you?” 
> 
> “They don’t get the chance.”
> 
> Arthur thinks Merlin can't lie. Merlin disagrees. Merlin proves himself. The knights see his abilities in action and a drunken villager is curious and intimidated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by Anonymous.

“We’re going to die,” Merlin announces loudly, Arthur beginning to groan the second he finishes the sentence.

“We’re not going to  _ die, _ Merlin,” He insists, rolling his eyes. Mordred glances at him, furrowing his eyes as the King smacks the servant over the head when he mimics him silently, “We’re just having a slight setback.”

“A setback that will cost us our lives,” The man clarifies, and Arthur shoots him a glare that clearly means ‘shut up before I beat you over the head with my sword.’ Gwaine snickers softly into Percival’s shoulder, the main practically holding him up. A poor excuse for a bandage is wrapped around his upper thigh, another around his middle. His shirt is torn, showing off where the man - the knight Cenred had sent - had stabbed him. 

“Thank you muchly, dear Merlin,” Gwaine grunts, “Not as though this setback will be costing  _ my life- _ ”

“That’s not what I meant,” Merlin insists immediately, and Percival huffs a breath as he drags Gwaine forward slightly, “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s Arthur’s fault. Anyway, the setback isn’t your injury, it’s our lack of medical supplies and the fact that it’s about a minute away from pouring rain on us and we have no camp supplies and how we’re being hunted by Cenred and his goons and we have basically no weapons-”

“Merlin!” Arthur interrupts, “For the love of God, shut up. There’s a village only a few minutes away and then we’ll have all of those things.”

“Yes, Sire,” The manservant replies easily, “Unless, of course, we act suspicious or your armor gives it away, and then they attack us and give us to Cenred. Or if they recognize us from your terrible lying abilities.”

“My lying abilities? Mine? Merlin, you couldn’t lie if your life depended on it,” Arthur laughs mockingly.

Melin makes an offended noise that morphs into a frustrated groan as it begins to rain, “Told you. And you’d be surprised at how well I can lie!” Gwaine, Arthur, and Elyan all snort minimally, Mordred placing a placating hand on the manservant's shoulder when he bristles.

“Please,” Gwaine sighs, blowing his long strands of hair from his face, “Merlin, your go-to excuse for everything is ‘I was at the tavern’.” 

“That’s not my excuse! Gaius always says that.” The man pouts, “And Mordred can back me up on this, can’t you?”

The men turn to Mordred, watching as he nods along convincingly.

“I must agree with Merlin here,” He ducks under a branch, “He can lie far better than you seem to believe.”

“Then how about he does all the talking,” Arthur laughs, gesturing to the lights of a village getting closer, “See how well he fends for us!”

Gwaine cheers weakly, Elyan and Percival chuckling along. Mordred glances at Merlin, a smirk forming on his lips when he watches the manservant shoot him a sarcastic wink. Arthur will be having a field day.

They travel in relative silence, each of them doing their best to stumble through the woods. Gwaine grunts at each movement, Percival holding him up. Elyan and Mordred huddle together, seeking what little body warmth they can get under the rapidly growing rain. Merlin stumbles behind Arthur, his fingers flexing as he struggles to hide his shivering. 

When they arrive at the village (far larger than they thought it would be), it’s still lit. Nobody is outside, hiding away from the rain inside the homes and buildings. Faint lights of lanterns and torches shine inside, and a tavern shines close by. They make their way in the village's direction.

The building goes silent when they arrive. All eyes turn to them, a barmaid making her way over the moment she notices. Arthur turns to smirk cockily at Merlin.

“Can I help you?” She says slowly, suspiciously. She eyes Gwaine and his bloody shirt, as well as Arthur and Mordred. Her eyes pass over Merlin until he steps forward.

“Yes ma’am,” He says easily, “Do you happen to have any medical supplies? My friend had a run-in with a particularly nasty beast.” She turns to him skeptically.

“A beast?” She huffs, “Sir, the largest beast out there is a buck.”

“Then I’m afraid something lurking in your coveted forests, ma’am,” He shoots back quickly. Arthur narrows his eyes at him, “Because that certainly was no buck.”

She eyes him for another moment before nodding, “As you say, sir. Take a seat in the corner and I’ll bring you some bandages. Those rags won’t do anything for a wound like that.” Merlin nods gratefully, motioning for Percival to drag him into the corner. All eyes remain on them as they take their respective seats. A man beside them leans over his table, shifting his drink aside.

“Perhaps you’re mistaken,” He announces mockingly, “With a body like that, surely you’d see the common rabbit as a beast!” Few men laugh. Many continue to watch them. Arthur glances at Merlin.

“I’m afraid not, sir. No common rabbit can cut a man open like that,” He replies tersely, jerking his head towards Gwaine. The man inspects his still mildly bleeding side and sneers.

“And what did this ‘beast’ look like?” He asks smugly.

“Why, quite like you, sir!” He exclaims immediately, “Big, fat, and hairy. He bumbled around looking for scraps like a pig, and when he saw something he thought was small enough to play with, he went for it. I’m afraid my friend here managed to fight back, though. I advise you don’t follow in it’s footsteps. It didn’t seem to enjoy losing a hand.”

The man pauses for a moment, taking in the widened eyes of his table-mates, before nodding. He lets out a boisterous laugh.

“You’ve got a fight in you, boy! Never would I have thought. Why don’t I order your friend a drink, and I can help you wrap those bandages,” He offers. Arthur chokes on his spit, staring. Merlin nods in acceptance.

“That’d be a great help, sir, thank you. Do you know of any places we could rest for the night? It’s downpour out there and traveling doesn’t seem quite safe with my friend’s injury,” He requests. The man nods, sticking a hand out.

“I’m Cyrus,” He introduces, “You can stay in the rooms above this tavern. They’re empty enough.”

“Thank you, Cyrus. I’m Balinor,” Merlin replies gratefully, not batting an eye at the name. The knights stay silent, “Please excuse my companions, we’ve had a hard night and they’re a bit tired.”

“Of course,” Cyrus accepts sympathetically, “Are you traveling far?”

“Not much further. We’re headed to Ealdor to stay for a bit, and then we’re going through Camelot,” He explains.

“Camelot?” Cyrus laughs, “Oh, boy, you’re in for a treat. King Arthur pays no good deed to any man of Cenred’s Kingdom. You get caught and you’ll be burned at the stake.”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, bristling at his words, but Merlin interrupts what would have been an insult. 

“So I’ve heard. But I have no fear of a pyre, nor do I have any worry that we’ll be caught. When my friend is well enough, we’ll travel slow and steady through the Kingdom. We’re in no rush.”

“You will be if he catches wind of your arrival. I know King Cenred would hunt you down if he thought you were of Camelot’s ranks,” Cyrus returns. Merlin laughs lowly.

“And if such a time comes, I’ll have no problem putting a sword through his chest. King Arthur is no threat to me.”

The knights glance at Arthur as he inhales deeply, staring at Merlin with flared nostrils and pursed lips before he relaxes.

Cyrus thunders a laugh, “Oh? You would kill King Arthur in his own Kingdom?”

“I would kill anyone who thinks to get in the way of my freedom. If King Cenred arrives at the borders and orders me to kneel, I’ll gladly kill him, too,” The manservant drawls. The barmaid arrives suddenly, dropping a large brown pouch onto the table. 

“Cyrus,” She greets, “And company. Take as much as you need, we get steady supplies.” She leaves briskly, casting a glance back at Merlin. He ignores it deliberately. Cyrus pulls a bandage from the pouch and nods to Percival.

“Take off that poor excuse of a bandage and help me get this one on. I can see the torn skin from beneath his shirt.” Percival does as he asks, and Cyrus looks back to Merlin.

“So then, Balinor,” He hums, “I must ask: who are you? You seem awfully familiar, as does your name.”

Merlin shrugs noncommittally, gesturing loosely to the knights, “We’re but simple travelers, sir-”

“I’m afraid such futile excuses will do nothing to disinterest me. No man with eyes like yours is simple in any way.”

Arthur’s eyebrows jump into his hairline, and Cyrus sets to work on helping Percival wrap Gwaine’s wound. Mordred makes fleeting eye contact with Merlin, blinking at the darkness in them. He keeps his eyes trained on the manservant, even when he deliberately turns his eyes away.

“Now then, I’ll get us a round of drinks, and you can tell me all about your adventures. I’m sure you have many,” Cyrus says simply, waving a hand at the barmaid. She nods back at him with a show of rolling her eyes. 

“So let’s start simple. What are you running from? I’ve never seen a group of men, one heavily injured, appear from the woodlands of Cenred’s kingdom in the dead of night during a thunderstorm. You’re running,” Cyrus laughs, and Merlin laughs along despite the tense statures of the knights. 

“You’re smarter than you look, Cyrus,” He teases, “But I’m afraid that if I tell you what we’re running from, I’ll have to kill you.”

Cyrus laughs loudly, barking out a wheeze as the barmaid sets a platter of drinks on the table. Gwaine reaches for a mead immediately.

“You’re quite funny, Balinor!” He rumbles. Merlin’s smile flashes, tilting off-kilter. Cyrus stutters in his laugh, furrowing his eyebrows.

“That was no joke, sir. Don’t ask again,” The manservant says, his smile widening uncomfortably so. Cyrus blinks, huffing out a half-assed laugh. The knights stare.

“I wonder just how much you’ve seen, boy. Your body is a twig but your eyes shine like no knight I’ve ever seen,” Cyrus hums, taking a swig, “In fact, you seem quite young for that particular look. How old are you?”

“I’m in my 20s, sir,” Merlin says politely, handing a mead to Arthur. He takes it gratefully, keeping his eyes trained on his manservant.

“20s? Why, you’re just a boy, indeed! And yet you look like a soldier with that posture of yours,” Cyrus gasps, “You must tell me what you’ve seen to be that way.”

Merlin laughs out, the sound ringing and sweet despite the darkening look in his eyes, “I’ve done nothing to warrant such words, Cyrus. I’m but a humble farm-boy.”

“Perhaps you are,” The man considers, a knowing glint shining in his eyes, “But I’ve met many men and women in my time. Only those who have suffered greatly can have such haunted eyes.”

Merlin rolls said eyes, scoffing loudly.

“Haunted eyes? Please, Cyrus, that’s bogus. I’ve got nothing in my eyes but the ache for sleep and the tiredness of this dragging conversation. Need I remind you of my earlier threat?”

“What, cutting my hand off? Or perhaps you meant you’d have to kill me if I asked what you were running from?” Cyrus shoots him a crooked grin. Merlin shrugs simply, taking a sip from his cup of mead.

“Perhaps I meant them both.”

“Somehow, I believe you’re quite capable of both acts.”

“I wouldn’t do a thing, sir. I have no need to dirty my hands. My friends, however, are more than ready to do any such deed,” The manservant shrugs once again. Cyrus glances at the knights fleetingly before turning back to Merlin.

“Are you their leader?” He asks curiously.

“You ask many questions, Cyrus.”

“I am a curious man. We get many travelers through our village. Not many are as mysterious as you.”

“The mystery is part of my charm!” Merlin hums.

“I suppose it is,” Cyrus relents, “But still. Your name - Balinor. I’ve heard it before.”

“Of course!” The manservant nods, “Balinor was the last Dragonlord, sent forth into the woodlands by Uther Pendragon.”

“Indeed, indeed! I heard little of him, but his name was mentioned once or twice by travelers. I suppose he’s dead?”

Merlin’s eyes darken, and he smiles oddly. His lips pull to the side slightly, flashing teeth, and he blinks slowly.

“Yes, he is.”

Cyrus pauses, eyeing his expression, and nods.

“I suppose it was expected. Uther was a ruthless hunter. Once he knew your name or saw your face in the act of sorcery, he would never forget you,” The man sighs, “I heard many stories of the things he had done, even to his dying day.”

“Such as who?” Merlin asks.

“His daughter. Ward. Mistress? Whoever she was, her name was Morgan-”

“Morgana,” Merlin mutters. He is ignored.

“-and Uther banished her from his land for sorcery. What a remarkable thing! Both to exile his own kind, and even more so for her to practice it right under his nose.”

“Is that so?” Merlin says in amusement, “I’ve met Morgana.”

“You have?” Cyrus straightens up, leaning onto his elbows. He ignores the name correction. Arthur shoots his manservant a glare. Merlin nods softly.

“Indeed I have,” He sighs, “And she is just as terrible as the tyrant Uther Pendragon had been. Magic corrupted her, as did the resentment she has for… well, for everything. She is filled with hatred.”

“I’m not surprised, sadly. How do you know her?”

“I know many people, Cyrus.”

“Is she a foe or friend?”

“She is no friend of mine.”

“Oh? Is she what you’re running from?”

“Why, sir,” Merlin purs, leaning forward and resting his chin on his palm. Arthur furrows his eyebrows at the act, so different from the man he knows Merlin to be.

“I don’t run from anything.”

Cyrus lets out a barking laugh, slamming his fist to the table. The men jump in surprise, the barmaid shooting him an annoyed scowl at the noise.

“I assume they run from you?” 

A glint appears in Merlin’s eyes, lighting up the darkness in them. He taps a slender finger against his cheek, smirking.

“They don’t get the chance.”

A silence settles over the group, heavier in its implications. The knights keep their tired eyes trained on Merlin (save Gwaine, drunk off the night’s events and both his and Percival’s mead sending flirtatious winks at a barmaid). Cyrus searches Merlin’s eyes.

“My friend seems to be in better shape, thanks to you,” The manservant finally relents, not moving from his place. Cyrus nods, “I’ll be taking them upstairs for a good night’s sleep. The mead will put them out like lights I’m sure.”

“Of course,” The man agrees quietly, and Merlin stands from his chair. Cyrus leans back in his chair, tensing slightly. 

“Goodnight then. Men?”

The knights clamber to their feet, shifting eyes and nervous breaths. Cyrus watches them go, his eyes on Merlin’s back the whole way. The barmaid leads them up rickety steps into a large, open room. Poorly woven blankets and old mattresses lay on the floor. 

“It’s not much in the least, but you aren’t staying long,” She tells them, not much of a request. Merlin thanks her quietly, waving her off.

“Gwaine will sleep with Percival,” He announces, “Mordred and Elyan can be together beside them. Arthur will be on his own.”

“And you?” Mordred asks immediately. Merlin cracks a smile at that, huffing.

“Cyrus is suspicious of me after that final comment. He knows where we’re sleeping and he saw that we were unarmed. I have no interest in getting another injury on this journey. I’ll be keeping watch,” He explains.

“And you think you can fight him off?” Arthur scoffs, unnerved by the look in his manservant’s eyes. The man makes eye-contact with him, darkened pupils were blown wide. 

“Not a chance. But he thinks I can after the show I put on for him, and he won’t be willing to fight me, someone he thinks can best him, in a room full of sleeping men twice my own size.”

“Then why keep watch at all?”

“Because, you clot pole,” Merlin sighs deeply, and Gwaine snickers into Percival’s shoulder, “If I’m asleep he’ll think he has a better chance, kill a few of you in your sleep so he doesn’t have to fight as many if one of us awakens, and then do as he wishes. It’s common sense.”

Arthur blinks at him. Elyan pats his shoulder sympathetically, pulling his still mildly dripping shirt off.

“We haven’t got dry clothes,” He reminds them. Mordred shrugs.

“Suppose the blankets will do for now. Keep your pants on, though.”

“Of course.”

Arthur climbs onto his own mattress, wrapping himself in the scratchy blanket. They fall into another silence as they climb into their respective places. Merlin doesn’t remove his shirt, nor does he lay down. He takes a seat against the wall beside the door, leaning his head back. A knife rests in his hands, ready.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks quietly, finally, when the other men’s breathing seems to even out. His manservant cracks open a tired eye, “Cyrus won’t be attacking us tonight, and I can fight if I must. Come- go to bed.”

The man nods sleepily, setting aside the knife. He yanks off his shirt awkwardly with one hand, stumbling to his feet. He drops it on his way and pulls a random blanket around his shoulders, tying it into a makeshift shawl. Arthur snorts.

He doesn’t ask before crawling up next to his King, curling up mere inches away. He shifts at the edge of the mattress, and Arthur sighs deeply. He reaches a blind hand out, grasping his manservant’s arms. He yanks him back into his waiting arms, holding his close. Merlin gasps inaudibly into his chest.

“I didn’t know you were so good at lying,” He whispers into the man’s shoulder. He shudders minutely, nodding.

“I’ve had practice, being your manservant.”

“You lie to me often?”

Merlin hums softly, a breath of laughter on his lips. He presses closer to Arthur, tucking his head into his neck. He breathes in deeply. The King tries not to think about it much.

“There’s a reason you think I’m so bad at lying, Arthur,” He murmurs against warm skin, “I can’t lie to you. Not unless it’s big.”

“And are there big things?” He mutters back. 

“I’m afraid so, Sire.” He switches to the formal name. Arthur drags a hand across the man’s back before pressing his palm between his shoulder blades. Their legs tangle together. 

“That’s alright. You’re allowed to have big things.”

“Thank you.”

Merlin sighs deeply, the breath wafting over Arthur’s neck. 

“G’night, Arthur,” He whispers. Arthur whispers it back almost silently, trailing a hand over the man’s spine before placing it back. They fall asleep that way. If they awaken the next day warm and comfortable to the sound of the barmaid pounding on the door, the knights don’t ask about it. And when they make their journey back to Camelot, Cyrus does not come to say goodbye, nor do they mention his absence. They don’t ask Merlin about his lies, nor do they ask how he can lie so easily. Perhaps they find it easier to ignore. 

Arthur doesn’t try to hide his smirk when Merlin stumbles over his words when trying to explain to Gaius why they were gone so long. He says they were at the tavern. For once, he wasn’t lying about that.


End file.
